Page 6 of Wrapped Up at the Vintage Dress Shop (Vintage Dress Shop Romance #3)

Hans, who could have given Anita a run for her money when it came to attitude and backchat, barely turned to look at her. ‘We are working, Pheebs. We’re looking after Freddy.’

‘Freddy?’ Phoebe had queried and the adoring crowd parted and the young man stood up.

‘Hi,’ he said with the same easy grin. ‘Johnno said to meet him here to pick up his lease agreement.’

‘I have a very grubby envelope in the back office, which Johnno left. But you’re not Mr Bird,’ she pointed out, eyes narrowed because this Freddy might be easy on the eye, very easy, but she’d always been warned off good-looking men who were too used to getting their own way.

‘I can’t be handing over important papers to just anyone. ’

‘I’m not Mr Bird,’ this Freddy had agreed, his smile not dimming, even his blue eyes seeming to twinkle with good humour. ‘And you’re definitely not Johnno who told me to meet him here.’

‘I’m Phoebe.’ She drew herself up to her full height, which was one hundred and seventy centimetres when she was wearing her heels. ‘I’m the manageress of The Vintage Dress Shop,’ she added with a faint note of pride because she still couldn’t quite believe that it was true.

‘Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Phoebe,’ Freddy had said, holding out his hand for Phoebe to shake.

That first touch, the slide of skin against skin, Freddy’s warm (but not unpleasantly so) hand clasping hers, had given Phoebe tingles. Proper tingles. As if her nerve endings were singing and a whole host of butterflies were gearing up for take-off. Just from a brief handshake.

‘And you are?’ she’d asked, snatching her hand back, certain her face was red because her cheeks had felt heated.

‘I’m Johnno’s new solicitor,’ Freddy had said, his expression now thoughtful as he looked at Phoebe. ‘Mr Bird has taken early retirement. Apparently Johnno has taken years off him.’

‘Well, I can certainly believe that,’ Phoebe had said with a smile and Freddy had taken a step back, still with that same considered look on his face. ‘I’ll get the papers for you, although I suppose I should check with Johnno first . . .’

‘The same Johnno who’s not answering his phone?’

This time they’d both smiled. Clearly Freddy had Johnno’s measure and if Johnno trusted him, though he looked far too young to be a fully qualified legal professional, then Phoebe had no reason to doubt him.

He was definitely an improvement on Mr Bird who always used a hundred words when ten would have done. Although Mr Bird had never once made her heart skip a beat the way it had when Freddy had joined them a few days later in The Hat and Fan for their Friday evening drinks.

And her heart had positively thundered when Freddy caught up with Phoebe as she left after a couple of drinks because even then, especially then, she hadn’t wanted to undermine her new-found authority by having too much to drink with her colleagues and embarrassing herself.

His touch on her arm had set the tingles off again. Then he’d said, casually but with a look that seemed anything but, ‘I don’t suppose you fancy going out for a drink sometime. Maybe even dinner?’

‘Like a business drink?’ Phoebe asked, trying to ignore her racing heart and her tingling skin. ‘Because you’re Johnno’s solicitor and I run his shop?’

‘Not a business drink,’ Freddy had stated calmly and clearly, his blue eyes fixed on her face, which felt hot again but she’d blame that on the two gin and tonics she’d had. ‘I like you. I’d like to get to know you a whole lot better.’

Phoebe’s first instinct had been to say yes, because even though he wasn’t her usual type, there was something about Freddy . . . She wanted to get to know him a whole lot better too.

But her second, much stronger instinct, had been to ignore her first instinct and her fluttering, racing heart.

‘That’s very kind of you but I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Phoebe had said sharply.

‘I think it would be unprofessional given our working relationship and I’ve only just become manageress of the shop and the staff knowing my private business .

. . you and I going out for a drink. Well, it would just undermine my authority. ’

There’d been a couple of moments of awkward silence as they stood by the pelican crossing on Chalk Farm Road. Freddy had looked down at his feet, then looked up again, his face serious.

‘It is just one drink. You might decide that you hate me,’ he’d pointed out with a shrug and Phoebe knew in that moment that she could never hate this charming, cheery man who was brave enough to ask her out. She’d been told, more than once, that most men found her utterly terrifying.

‘I really do prefer to keep my work life and my private life separate,’ she’d said with just a trace of regret in her voice. Not that she had much of a private life. She really did live for her dresses.

‘Oh well.’ Another shrug. ‘You can’t blame a bloke for trying.’

‘You can’t,’ Phoebe had agreed.

Freddy had respected Phoebe’s decision. But every few months or so, he’d ask her out again. Not in a horrible, douche-y ‘I never take no for an answer’ sort of way, like those awful, gym bro men on TikTok who claimed they were dating coaches.

‘I just wondered if anything had changed in the last few months,’ Freddy would say like it was no big deal. ‘And that you might want to grab a drink sometime.’

Phoebe had always turned him down. Very firmly. Brutally, Freddy had later said but she didn’t want to give him any false hope or encouragement.

In the end, it had been Phoebe who’d sought Freddy out and now here they were.

Of course, Phoebe still didn’t want her authority in the shop undermined, so nobody at the shop knew about them.

Well, apart from Cress who’d bumped into the two of them at a vintage fair in south London.

Phoebe had thought that she and Freddy were OK to hold hands if they were on the other side of London but apparently not.

Cress was sworn to secrecy though Freddy had said that it was a sign that they should go public but with Sophy and Anita as impossible as they were, it seemed to Phoebe that there were days when she was clinging on to her authority by her fingernails.

Freddy had sighed in a way that never failed to make Phoebe feel guilty, but not enough to make her relent. Anyway, what was the point in ruining a good thing? And it was a good thing.

Freddy opened a small tin of gourmet, grain-free salmon dog food and put it into Coco Chanel’s food bowl as Phoebe put the kettle on.

‘Do you want a herbal tea?’ she asked, because unlike Phoebe who was about to have her seventh coffee of the day, Freddy couldn’t process caffeine after six o’clock. Not if he wanted to sleep that night.

‘Can you make me a chamomile?’ Freddy held up his phone. ‘Shall we do Thai tonight?’

Phoebe nodded her agreement. She made their drinks while Freddy studied the menu from their favourite Thai restaurant.

‘What do you fancy?’ he asked as Phoebe took her mug of coffee and headed out of the kitchen.

‘You know what I like, babes,’ she said. ‘Have I got time for a bath first?’

‘Yeah, as long as it’s not one of your epic soaks, I can hold off ordering for half an hour.’ Freddy looked plaintive for a second. ‘Though I am starving.’

‘But you’re not going to wither away in the next thirty minutes,’ Phoebe pointed out. ‘I’ll make it a quick bath but I do need to wash my hair too.’

‘Sometimes I think you only want me for my abundant hot water,’ Freddy called after, which wasn’t true. Well, maybe it was three per cent true.

Phoebe headed for Freddy’s bedroom where she had a lot more space than just one drawer. Then she moved to the spare room or rather her overspill wardrobe where her special occasion dresses and her big winter coats and also her huge collection of vintage handbags lived.

An hour later, Phoebe was showered, hair washed, and she’d done her big Friday night ten-product skincare regime and Freddy was collecting their takeaway from the delivery driver who’d just rung the bell.

Phoebe got a bottle of wine from the fridge and assembled glasses, napkins and the chopsticks that Freddy had taught her to use.

Cutlery was much easier but Phoebe could appreciate the aesthetics of the set of black lacquered chopsticks that she’d bought Freddy for his birthday.

For her last birthday, Freddy had bought Phoebe the set of vintage silk pyjamas that she was now wearing.

They were jade green and decorated with pink flamingos.

Freddy would never dare buy Phoebe outside clothes or accessories or make-up.

It wasn’t worth the pain or Phoebe’s little sigh even though she tried to look grateful.

Though to be fair, Phoebe wouldn’t have a clue where to start if she wanted to buy Freddy a pair of trainers or yet another Fred Perry shirt to add to his vast collection.

So, it had become a tradition that Freddy bought her pyjamas for her birthday. Gorgeous vintage pyjamas in silks and satins and so far he’d done an excellent job.

‘I am actually quite hungry,’ Phoebe said when Freddy arrived with a plastic bag that bulged promisingly and smelt enticing. ‘You know that I said I wasn’t going to do noodles because carbs . . . Well . . .’

‘Babes, I got you noodles,’ Freddy said as this was a game they always played.

‘I’ll just have a few then,’ Phoebe decided, and soon they were sitting cross-legged on Freddy’s Danish forest green mid-century sofa, which was stylish and comfortable, with a Thai feast laid out before them on the coffee table and Mad Men on Freddy’s obnoxiously huge wall-mounted TV because they were rewatching it from the beginning.

Every now and again, they’d have to pause the feasting and the bingeing to put Coco Chanel in air jail, even though she knew that spring rolls and popcorn shrimp violently disagreed with her.

When neither of them could eat any more, although Phoebe always stopped when she was eighty per cent full, they cleared away what was left.

Then Freddy stretched out with his head in Phoebe’s lap so she could wind his curls through her fingers, even though he complained that she was messing up his hair.

Coco Chanel settled on Freddy’s chest, her face smooshed into his neck, her fulsome snores competing with the television.

It wasn’t how Phoebe had expected things to pan out when she’d finally agreed to go out on a date with Freddy, but she wasn’t mad about it.

In fact, though she’d never admit it to anyone, especially not to Freddy because it would make him unbearably smug, she thought that their Friday evenings might be her favourite time of the week.

It was all so lovely. Peaceful in a way that Phoebe rarely experienced until Freddy had to ruin it by opening his mouth and saying words. Very unwelcome words.

‘So, you’ve got that fashion influencer coming in tomorrow, haven’t you?’ he asked nonchalantly. Far too nonchalantly.

‘I think so,’ Phoebe said, though she knew for a fact that it was so and just like that, she was instantly fuming. ‘To be the so-called face of the so-called rental business.’

She’d been so relaxed and now every muscle was tensed. Freddy was unbothered, though many lesser men were petrified when Phoebe went stiff with rage. He reached up to pat her arm.

‘Play nice, Pheebs,’ he said lightly. ‘You promised.’

Phoebe looked down at him even though she knew it wasn’t her most flattering angle. Not that Freddy seemed to mind. He had the nerve to wink at her.

‘I don’t remember promising anything,’ Phoebe insisted, which was a lie and they both knew it.

‘You did promise and I said I’d make it up to you,’ Freddy reminded her as he swung himself round to sitting then stood up.

Phoebe folded her arms. ‘And just how are you going to do that?’

Freddy held out his hand. ‘Let’s move this to the bedroom and I’ll give you a hands-on demonstration.’

When Freddy wanted something, he was very determined about getting it. If he wanted Phoebe to be nice to some shrieking girl with questionable fashion sense and 330,000 followers on Instagram, then he was going to have to work really hard for it.

Afterwards, with Coco Chanel scrabbling at the bedroom door from the hall outside where she’d been banished, Phoebe put a hand to her heart, which was still beating very fast, and stole one last kiss from Freddy.

He’d definitely earned a Phoebe who would be on her very best behaviour the next day.